The Christmas Lyrics
by Daydream1
Summary: Short stories about the newsies and other people from their world during the Christmas season. Each story is inspired by a Christmas song. Second Story: Blue Christmas.
1. All I Want For Christmas

Disclaimer: I don't own the Newsies, but I do own Reade Street Lodging House and the characters in it. I also own Socks. Awww, Socks. :o)

**The Christmas Lyrics**

All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth

John "Socks" Madigan was seven years old.

He didn't have much but he thought what he did have was enough.

He had a dark brown cap with only a couple patches in it. His mom had given it to him before she had gone away. He didn't know where she had gone but she was gonna come back for him. She'd said so so he believed her.

Socks had a good-sized bag of marbles; he was good at shooting and most other boys were good at losing. He kept the bag under his pillow when he slept at night; whenever the older boys tried to move them 'cause they didn't think he could sleep like that, he wouldn't let them. He didn't want no one to take his marbles.

He also had an old baseball mitt Skittery had given him last year for his birthday. He loved the mitt even more than he loved his marbles. He kept it with him all the time and didn't let nobody use it. Well, that was a lie. Sometimes he let Bows from Reade Street use it if she came to play with them but that was because Bows was a girl and she'd go cry to Jack or Race or one of the older Reade Street girls if he didn't let her play with it. The little snot.

However, Socks did want something this Christmas.

"C'mon, Socks, whistle for us!" said Snipeshooter. The redhead clapped Socks on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground. "Give us Yankee Doodle or Mary Had a Little Lamb. Aw, c'mon, Socks, don't be a sourpuss."

Socks shook his head, shoved his hands into his pockets and took another step forward in line. It was a freezing December morning, and they were standing near the back of the line at the distribution center.

"What are you, chicken?"

Socks shot Snipes the best Spot-Conlon-glare he could muster and looked away again.

"How about you don't sing? Try saying Sister Susie sitting on a thistle instead." Snipeshooter only laughed at the murderous look Socks cut him. Snipeshooter gave him another playful shove and sent him crashing into Bumlets.

"Watch it, Socks," Bumlets said as he caught the boy and steadied him. The Spanish teenager smiled down at the younger newsie. "Wouldn't want you to slip and fall off the steps."

Socks made a face and jabbed a gloved finger towards Snipeshooter.

"Snipes…" Bumlets started, shaking his head. The older newsies knew that Snipeshooter had been teasing Socks for days and it was starting to get on their nerves as well as Socks'.

The redhead put on an innocent face and held up his hands. "What? I just wanted to hear the baby whistle."

Socks let out a shout and lunged for Snipeshooter, hands already formed into fists. That wasn't fair, he wasn't a baby! He was seven-years-old!

Bumlets reached out and snatched up Socks before he could tackle Snipeshooter. "Socks!" He held the boy under his arm and rolled his eyes at his energy.

"Lemme at 'im! Lemme go!" shouted Socks, flailing his arms and legs about and reaching towards Snipeshooter.

The other newsies, already annoyed about being awake so early on a cold December morning, were only further annoyed by the antics of the younger newsies.

"Pipe down, Socks!"

"Quit makin' a racket!"

"Leave him alone, Snipeshooter. You're such an idiot."

"Put him down, Bumlets, Snipes deserves it."

Snipeshooter stuck his tongue out at Skittery, the newsie who had made the previous comment.

"I wouldn't stick my tongue out in this weather," said Sketch, Skittery's girl. "It might freeze like that."

"Not a big loss," teased Racetrack. Snipeshooter held up a fist as if that would scare the Italian.

Socks stopped kicking his legs and throwing his arms about so Bumlets thought it was safe to let him loose.

"Calm down, Socks, that ain't no way for a kid like you to behave," Bumlets said as he sat the little newsie down. Bumlets bent over and picked Socks' cap up out of the dirty snow. He knocked it a couple times against his leg to get the snow and ice off of it. "Don't let him get to you. It won't be much longer until you say Sister whatever doing something or other." He grinned and plopped the small, dark brown hat down on top of Socks' head.

"Fank you, Bumfefs," said Socks quietly, hoping Snipes wasn't paying attention.

"What'd you say, Socks? Say it again!"

This time Snipeshooter found out exactly how hard an angry seven-year-old could punch.

Yep, Socks really wanted something for Christmas this year.

His damn two front teeth.


	2. Blue Christmas

Disclaimer: If I owned Newsies, I'd let everyone publish their fanfictions. So obviously, I don't own Newsies.

Blue Christmas

"Style, are you sure don't you want to come to the show? Everyone's going to be there."

Style looked up at Saint who was standing at the end of her bed, holding her dark green coat in her hands. Most of the other girls of Reade Street Lodging House had already left for the show that was being held at Irving Hall tonight.

Style shook her head and forced a smile onto her face.

"Oh, no, you go on ahead. I think I'm just going to stay here."

"Well, if you decide later—"

"Saint! Let's go!" Daydream's yell from the front door was loud enough to be heard anywhere in the three story house. "For once I'm not running late! I bet Race a nickel that I'd get there on time!" Saint rolled her eyes.

"I'm coming! And I don't care about your stupid bet! Geeze." Saint, the gentle, motherly expression back on her face, turned her attention to Style. "As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by the loud mouth, if you decide that you want to come later, we'll be at Irving Hall until at least midnight, maybe later. Just be careful if you come."

"I will. Thanks, Saint," Style said. "You should probably go before Day leaves you."

"She wouldn't. She knows better." Saint reached over and patted Style on the leg. "See you later, darling."

"Bye." Style watched as the dark-haired girl walked out of the bunk room, her grey skirt swishing around her legs. Style was left alone in the bunkroom with only the sound of wood cracking in the pot belly stove to keep her company.

Unlike the others, Style wasn't in a festive mood. Medda was putting on a special viewing of her holiday show just for the newsies and their friends, but Style couldn't bring herself to go. She knew that Brit wasn't going to be there, and without him, she wasn't sure if she could enjoy the show.

Style spread out on her bed and pulled her pillow to her chest. She pressed her face into the off-white pillowcase and took a deep, stuttering breath. It may have sounded melodramatic to the others, but Style wasn't sure if she was ever going to really enjoy anything for a long time.

Brit, with his dashing smile, his chivalrous nature, and his gentleman's manners had swept her off her feet at fourteen. He had been her whole world for the two years since then; she had even given up her job as a laundress so she could be closer to him by working as a newsie. She had thought they would get their act together and eventually get married; then he would work for the newspaper and she would be a stay-at-home mother of one little girl and one little boy. They'd move out of the city one day, maybe south to one of the port cities. They'd get a house on the water front, and she and Brit would sit in their living room and watch the ships pass by when they got old.

Last month, Brit had killed all those dreams.

Style had shown up distribution center one morning already knowing something was not right. Brit hadn't shown up that morning to walk her to the DC like he did every morning. Jack had taken her aside and told her that Brit had split the previous day. He had left her a note and a couple dollars that Jack passed along to her.

The note told her that Brit had fallen in love with a woman from the British lower middle class who had been visiting in New York, and he had decided to follow her and her family back to England to win her heart.

_It's not that I don't love you anymore, Beautiful, it's just that I love her more._

Style had been furious, then distraught, then despondent. The other girls in Reade Street had had to support her for at least a week, dragging her around and forcing her to sell newspapers when they could and collecting money for her when they couldn't. Style could remember one of the little girls asking, "Is Style gonna die?"

After the week was over, Style threw herself into her work, selling more papers than she had ever sold in her life. She sold every time a new edition came out, and she stayed out later than all of the others. The boys decided that Style was back to her old self, but the girls knew better. Style was just masking how upset she was by devoting herself to selling.

Saint worried the most about her and tried to keep an eye on her. However, there was only so much that she could do; Style had to do the rest to pull herself out of her well-masked melancholy.

Style hugged her pillow tightly and pulled her legs up to her chest. It was so hard without him there to share what was supposed to be the happiest time of the year. Now he had made it miserable for her.

Damn him! She flung her pillow across the room where it hit the wall and then fell to the floor. Damn all men! She hated Brit as much as any human could hate another.

There was one problem though.

She still missed him.


End file.
